


Of Epigraphs, Eagles, and Ettiquette

by Arcus_Calion



Series: Lore and Loquacity [1]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, Lore Discussions, Poetry, Quenya, Rivendell | Imladris, Sindarin, Translations from the Elvish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-21
Updated: 2018-06-21
Packaged: 2019-05-26 09:07:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14997515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arcus_Calion/pseuds/Arcus_Calion
Summary: Bilbo has returned from his journey to Erebor and Dale, and he has settled into life in Rivendell. He's begun to take an interest in learning about lore beyond what he already knows. He talks with Elrond about some odd inscriptions he finds, and asks the  age-old question: why didn't the Eagles fly him to the Mountain?





	Of Epigraphs, Eagles, and Ettiquette

“Yes, but this passage here has some startling implications!” said Bilbo, fidgeting in his chair. It was a good deal too tall for him, and he was finding the feeling of his feet dangling in the air to be getting most uncomfortable. “I feel as if I must be misreading it!”

“Perhaps if you recite it to me I may help to clear the situation up greatly” Elrond answered, his face deadly serious, but his eyes twinkling with a fond smile.

“Bilbo cleared his throat and read aloud gravely from his notebook:

_Nui Eruhîn eriar nu elui menil_

_A lhar in nîn noril_

_Thoronath uin Erain Annuin reviathar_

_Vinan menel ah ryv sui in sûl._

He closed the notebook smartly. He carried it with him almost everywhere in Rivendell these days, since one never knew where the next drop of information might be found. He had found this particular phrase carved into a small wayshrine in the woods in the upper regions of the valley, under the feet of a stone eagle perched at a bend in the road. The letters had been worn away by the fading years, but with the help of the noonday sun and some careful consideration, he had gotten what he believed to be an accurate transcription.

Elrond turned and walked over to the railing of the balcony. They were sitting in the balcony of Elrond’s study, perched in the upper floors of his House, watching the sun sink low in the sky above the valley. A nightingale sang a wistful song in the gloaming light, and with his keen eyes Elrond could make out a family of foxes padding softly through the loam at the fringe of the nearby woods. He smiled. “That is a stanza of a much longer work, a sort of poetic rendition of an old legend.” He turned to face the old hobbit, who by now looked quite uncomfortable in his chair. “It is from the _Anaxartaron Onyalië_ , which was written by a friend of mine from the account of some he knew well.”

Bilbo furrowed his brow in confusion. “But Master Elrond, certainly this is a strange thing! For the title of a work and its text to be in different tongues, well I can’t say I’ve come across any like it.”

Elrond gazed at the small figure of Bilbo in his quaint waistcoat and was once again pleased to find him as sharp as he’d ever been. “You are quite right, Bilbo. The tale is quite old. It was told to my father’s mother’s father and his kin in Valinor, in ages past. It is not often that I am minded to remember such times and places in these late days.” He grabbed a second chair and put it in front of Bilbo, who rested his feet on it with a sigh of relief and thanks. Taking a seat himself on a carven chair of elm wood, he continued. “It was part of the instruction my forefathers were given of the Eldest Days, when the world was yet new, and no Elf was yet woken. Those were the times of the Valar, the Powers, who walked the earth in splendor. Their deeds were known only later, when the Eldar came to Valinor and were instructed by them. The _Anaxartaron_ is one such tale. My friend, Pengolodh, a sage nearly unequaled in Middle-earth, set it first to writing while working on his histories. He wrote it in Quenya. I asked him why at the time, since Quenya was not a language many viewed with kindness, and he smiled, saying that he hoped that would not always be so.”

Elrond looked like he was far away, his eyes shining with the memory of friends long departed. Bilbo always loved seeing him this way, although it was still rather intimidating. To think: here before him was someone who had seen with sight the Elder Days and the rebirth of the world, as well as its long descent into the darkness of the present day. Bilbo interrupted his reverie. “What happened to him, to Pengolodh?”

Elrond’s eyes glimmered back to the moment. “He took ship from the havens long ago, when Sauron first rose to his dark dominion in the Black Years. He was concerned much with preserving what was good to be remembered, for he had the wisdom to remember that not all that dwelt in these Hither Lands were of the Eldar, and so memory is not always their friend.”

Bilbo laughed at that. “That is certainly true. We mortals seem to forget things faster than river fish, although perhaps that is for the best. I imagine living so long burdened by such a perfect memory must feel like something other than a blessing at times.”

Elrond looked sad. “Alas, this is the truth. The weight of our years lie heavy on our spirits, and though they burn bright, they grow weary with the wearing of the ages.” He looked out across the slowly darkening valley. “But we digress, you wished to know how it came to be that this passage was writ in a language not in accord with its title. For that, we must come to the next author. After Pengolodh wrote his many works, some in Quenya, and some in Sindarin, many were the minds that read and heeded what he wrote. Indeed, many among Men treasured his words as well, especially in Númenor, where learning was always a strength of the powerful. There, the poet Boron, called by his people Saelam, the Wise-tongued, set many of the works of Pengolodh to verse. He wove in much of the ancient lore of his people, melding it with the teachings of Pengolodh and of the Elves of Eressëa and Lindon to create works of great skill and beauty.”

Bilbo had been scribbling hastily in his notebook as Elrond was talking, but here he looked up and stopped. “Yes, yes, he was a brilliant poet. But what was the story about? The title is quite obscure, I’m not familiar with the words at all.”

Elrond laughed. “If memory is not the friend of mortals, then patience is their mortal foe! As to the title, the words used are quite archaic. They refer to the Great Eagles, and the Shepherds of the Trees.”

Bilbo furrowed his brow again. “Hmm, this brings me back to the writing itself.” He flipped his pages and returned to it. “I thought I must be confused when I read it, but with that title, perhaps I was right. This is how I rendered it into the Common tongue:

_Ere the Children awake neath starry skies_

_And hear the waters murmur_

_Shall go out in the sky with wings like the wind_

_The Eagles of the Lords of the West_

What do you say, is that accurate?”

Elrond looked surprised. “I am always startled by your skill with translation. That is a fine rendering, although more poetic and flowery than the original.”

Bilbo grinned. “I like to make things sound nice, it’s a vice of mine.”

Elrond laughed heartily, a sound like a rippling brook splashing against mossy stones. “Of all your vices, that is perhaps the most praiseworthy.”

Bilbo bowed his head in acknowledgement of the compliment. Then he too laughed, and together they watched the Sun dip below the rim of the valley, turning the golden twilight into the half dark of evening. Above them two stars glimmered, and on the horizon one shone with a twinkling serenity, like a cheery eye. Bilbo gazed at it fondly. “Aiya Eärendil, elenion ancalima,” he murmured, gazing at the speck of light. Elrond looked over at the old hobbit, wondering if he knew how little he heard words like that anymore, at least when people knew he was listening.

“Let us go in where there is fire and food,” said Elrond, “and you can finish telling me why this passage has so perplexed you.”

Bilbo agreed heartily to that, and soon they were seated comfortably in a warm corner of the Hall of Fire, Bilbo sinking contentedly into a plush armchair that he usually claimed on these warm summer evenings. He was feeling hungry, as any respectable (and not entirely respectable) hobbit would, but he wanted to get to the bottom of the confusion he felt before eating. “My difficulty, Master Elrond, as we were discussing, is this: why does it say ‘the eagles of the Lords of the West’? I thought that only the Valar were called by that name!”

Elrond nodded solemnly. “Indeed they are, and woe to any who usurps the title.”

Bilbo shifted deeper into his chair. “But Elrond, I met the Eagles. They were nice enough, if a bit intense and ill-equipped to cater to the culinary needs of a hungry hobbit, but they hardly seemed to fit any role connected to the Valar! And Gandalf never mentioned anything of the sort!”

Elrond considered the comment before replying. “The Eagles of Manwë have long served the Elder King. In the Elder Days I saw them fight with the dragons of the Black Foe in the skies above Thangorodrim. But in these later years, the Valar are removed from Middle-earth, and their watch is less visible. The Eagles have become like any of us: peoples of Middle-earth. They have fulfilled their duty. But they remain good and decent people, and I myself am friendly with several of their number. Gandalf most likely said nothing because there was nothing to say. I do suppose you don’t expect him to discuss the history of your great-great-grandmother once removed on your father’s side and her unsavory obsession with mushrooms with any old travelling companions, even the Dwarves of Thorin’s company? Then it is no different with their family history. But the fact remains true, that the Eagles were of old the messengers of the Valar, and they remain among the defenders of the West.”

Bilbo was writing furiously in his notebook. When Elrond finished speaking he said: “I suppose that is fair, I hadn’t looked at it in that light. But I do still wonder then, if they really were the servants of the Valar, shouldn’t they have been more helpful? I really am grateful for their help in getting out of a tight spot, but I will admit, I did wonder if they might not be able to fly us over Mirkwood altogether, and save us all a good deal of bother and several of the worst sorts of adventures.”

Elrond laughed. “My dear Bilbo, what a strange hobbit you are! You learn that you had the honor of being hosted by the emissaries of the Powers of the World, and you ask why they could not have flown you further? I suppose I cannot speak for them, but if I were to guess, I would say that they found themselves insulted by your presumption!”

He laughed as Bilbo turned bright red, his face blending into the crackling firelight. “Well now! I suppose that is rather rude of me. I got rather carried away remembering how miserable the journey through Mirkwood was, and I suppose I really did get rather presumptuous. I do wish I could invite the Eagles around for tea sometime, seeing as they hosted me, after their fashion. Still, somehow I can’t quite picture a Great Eagle drinking tea at Rivendell, much less at Bag End under the Hill.”

They both chuckled at that, and at that moment a gong softly rang in the house. “Well, speaking of tea, it seems like supper is ready,” said Bilbo, springing out of his chair with the vigor of a much younger hobbit. Elrond arose much more gracefully, and Bilbo took his hand.

“Shall I invite any Eagles?” Said Elrond, with a twinkle in his eye.

“I certainly hope so!” replied Bilbo with a laugh, and they both headed in to supper.

**Author's Note:**

> In this fic I assume Bilbo knows the basic story of the Silmarillion, but The Ents and Eagles was a separate work by Tolkien, and not originally a part of the Silmarillion. As far as I know, there is no in-universe author for it, but I think assigning it to Pengolodh is a fair bit of assumption. I decided that Bilbo probably wouldn't know of it, and I wanted to use this as a fun sort of way to address the age old question of why the Eagles can't just be the Middle-earth taxi service that all the casual movie-watchers want them to be. Obviously there are more reasons than what is given here, but I thought this fit their characters best. The poem and the history of its writing are my own invention. It is actually a stanza taken from my other work, the poetic rendering of the Anaxartaron.


End file.
